Of (un)Lucky Writers and Dorky Doctors
by Allison Grasshopper
Summary: After being involved in three cases of the BAU she could safely say that she'd seen enough criminals. The BAU team however was okay. Kathlyn wouldn't mind hanging out with them.


Considering how boring her week had been thus far, this situation was in some twisted way appreciated. No that she would ever admit that. People would start talking if they knew she was pleased about a man breaking into the house she was housesitting.

Which brought her back to the matter at hand.

The gun he had threatened her with had by now reached the floor below, going off. The noise did distract her a few important seconds (what expensive vase did she have to replace?) where his clumsy fist connected with her jaw. She grabbed his wrist before he could pull back and kneed him twice in his unprotected side.

Then she twisted his arm behind his back and shoved him as hard as her tiny body could into the wall. The woman hadn't planned for his head to hit first, so she dropped him out of surprise when he fell towards her. He was out cold.

That was … anticlimactic.

And it showed her that she was getting rusty. Getting hit so easily? She should find a gym or something.

When the red head prodded him with her foot, a throat cleared by the stairs. A man looking like the FBI agent straight out of the books stood there: gun, protective vest, suit and all. His gun wasn't pointing at her, which earned him some points.

"I haven't called the police yet, you know." She told him flatly, stepping away from the unconscious man. "And even if a neighbour called because of the gunshot, you shouldn't have arrived yet."

Not to mention that he was FBI and that FBI didn't just come when a gun went off in someone's house. However rich (and sort of famous) the person in that house was. Or the house sitter, in this case.

"My team was searching the area. We knew that he would be coming here and wanted to catch him before the act." As he talked he secured his gun to his holster, taking the cuffs out instead.

She let out a snort.

"The FBI is after a bulger? What did he steal?" she asked him, leaning against the wall and rubbing her jaw. She hated the feeling of a growing bruise.

At that he looked up, only having secured one arm of the man yet. He looked at her like she just asked what one plus one was, even ready to lecture her. But just as he opened his mouth two sets of footsteps were heard.

The FBI-man next to the woman barked out a "Clear" and two new people joined them. An old man with grey hair and a tired appearance. The other one a woman, very pretty and serious. Also FBI. Both seemed surprised to see the bulger unconscious and with a forming bruise on the forehead. The man more so.

"Guess we got here on time then. What did you do to him Hotch?" the woman was the first to talk, even putting her gun away and smiling at "Hotch". Then she came towards me and put a hand on my shoulder. "Are you alright? He didn't hurt you, did he?" Empathic, tender and oh so friendly. Laughing would have been rude, so she opted for an awkward smile and took a step away from the offending hand.

Why did people always touch her so readily?

The red head answered before the man could, still sarcastic.

"He did get one hit in, my jaw is a bit sore, but I guess it's only fair that I let him get a hit in too." _Lie, you weren't paying attention_ , her mind corrected. "Mr FBI over there only made his presence known after the excitement was over." Perhaps that would make this Hotch react. Nope, still all stone face.

Playing Poker against him would be a bitch, not that she knew how to play.

The agent tried not let the surprise show when she looked the tiny woman over. She seemed surprised. Was it really that unbelievable that she could fight? All of them just stood there and looked at her or the unconscious man. The grey-haired man even looked over the ugly pictures on the wall.

"I guess this is awkward for you guys. Doesn't happen often that the victim beats up the attacker, huh?" She meant to come over relaxed and friendly, but her sarcastic tone didn't let up. Not that it mattered, this was funny. For her at least.

"Also doesn't happen often that the victim doesn't know that the mean that broke into her house is a serial rapist and murderer, active in the region where she lives in." Was all that Hotch answered.

That explained quite a few things, at least.

* * *

The next day she was in the news.

 _The woman the Tommy Killer fell for._

It sounded stupid, gave the wrong impression and was incredibly uninformed. They hadn't even gotten her name, which was sad on so many levels.

Apparently the fight started in the first floor and moved out into the garden where two neighbours saw her throwing him in the pool. She got away unscratched. The FBI arrived after she already tied him up.

The last part had her snickering, they made it sound kinky. That earned her a few strange looks on the train.

She also found out who the FBI people were. A special unit called BAU. Internet recherche told her that the synonym meant Behavioral Analysis Unit. They were hired to find out why the criminal did what he did.

Like shrinks.

The agents she met had given their names after they juggled the rapist down the stairs. Aaron Hotchner, Elle Greenaway and Jason Gideon. She never saw other teammates but heard some of them mentioned, A Garcia and a Morgan. Not that she could do anything with the names.

The woman whose house she was housesitting came back two hours after the agents left. The woman was her managers friend and should have been on holiday for two more days. When she came back she complained that her house wasn't like she wanted it to look like when she returned. Then she saw the little palm in the living room.

The bullet yesterday did hit something, and it was this exact plant.

At that the woman complained even more and wouldn't listen to her, even after she told her about the rapist. So the once-house sitter left her enough money to replace the plant and left. Back then she was angry, now it was funny.

The faces the woman made were just hilarious.

So here she was now in a train she chose by a coin throw on her way to who knows where. She was working on her laptop on her third book, at least at first. A mother and her teen had recognized her and after she gave autographs, the girl kept asking her questions. Not that the young author minded.

The last two stops she spent looking at the newspaper article. It was still horribly written and so wrong.

She'd still keep it.

* * *

 **A/N:** Hello there.

English is my second language and this is my first time writing here. Not a very good combination, but I tried. I hope it isn't too bad.


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